


on a professional level

by van1lla_v1lla1n



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: AND THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED!, Alcohol, Blindfolds, Boss/Employee Relationship, Chekhov's HR infraction, Crack Treated Seriously, Developing Relationship, Drinking Games, Explicit Sexual Content, Huddling For Warmth, Humiliation kink, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Open Marriage, Oral Sex, Repression, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Verbal Humiliation, but undernegotiated, butt stuff, canonical mention of workplace shooting, general internalized queerphobia, implicit Shiv/Tom, technically, this is probably ludicrous but I'm running with it, tom is an asshole but he's greg's asshole, vaguely mid-season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27285523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/van1lla_v1lla1n/pseuds/van1lla_v1lla1n
Summary: Tom and Greg get stranded at a media conference hosted at possibly the cringiest frontier lodge in the Upper Midwest.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 110
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> let me "bless" you all with the obnoxiously serious quotes that I thought about while I wrote this: 
> 
> _and he hasn’t moved,  
>  he’s frozen, and you’ve kissed him, and he’ll never  
> forgive you, and maybe now he’ll leave you alone_  
> —Richard Siken.
> 
>  _Give me a blindfold, hold my hand, and don’t ask me to think—will you do that for me?_  
>  — _Call Me by Your Name._

“What the fuck is this, Greg?” Tom looked through the conference welcome packet, wincing past the garish American flag word-art title: The Conservative Free Expression Foundation’s Conference for Unbiased Media. “What have you gotten us into now?”

“I don’t know, Tom. You said you wanted speaking engagements to prop up ATN or whatever. I sent out, like, some feelers, and this was an encouragingly enthusiastic bite. So, like, there you go, I guess. I was just doing what you asked.”

“Don’t _or whatever_ me, Greg. We needed to _bolster_ ATN’s reputation, man, not toss it down an Old West latrine.” Tom grimaced at an antler lamp on an end table next to the worn leather couch he was perched on. His eyes widened suddenly and he glared at Greg from behind the welcome packet. “ _Greg._ Is that Alex fucking Jones?”

“I don’t know, man. Where?” Greg craned his neck up and Tom grabbed his elbow.

“Dude, stop being so fucking obvious. You look like a fucking periscope on stilts right now. We cannot be seen here.”

“It’s a media conference, Tom? Don’t you think they’re gonna, you know, put all this in the media anyway?”

“God fucking dammit, Greg. We can’t get ATN caught up in this alt-right shitstorm. Logan’s going to flay us.”

“Well, can we, like, back out?”

Tom groaned. “I don’t think so, Greg. These feral fucks are going to be all over the slightest sign of weakness. We still need them to like us, you know? We just can’t be seen to like _them_.”

“Right. Sure, so—”

“So, I think, Greg—what I think we do, is we just do our little talk this afternoon, spout off our spiel about ATN’s great American values, drink off the bad taste with all the booze we can squeeze out of these bastards, and high-tail it the fuck out of here after a nice plate of continental breakfast tomorrow morning. I know you’re all about that desperation lifestyle, Greg, so we’ll make sure you get all the powdered eggs you can eat, even though this entire neo-con quagmire is 100 percent your fucking fault.”

Tom closed his eyes and sighed, rolling his neck, and when he opened his eyes again he’d slathered on his schmooziest PR smile. “Okay, Greg? Sound good? Let’s get this shitshow on air.”

* * *

Greg hunted Tom out in the hotel restaurant by his guffaw. He was sitting at the dry, splintering bar, talking up some guys in worn khakis and tweed jackets who Greg recognized from the audience of Tom’s talk earlier that afternoon.

“Listen, fellas,” Tom was saying, “at ATN we don’t put up with any of that nepotism fuckery. We’re all about the meritocracy, right? That’s why our coverage is so . . .” He trailed off when he spotted Greg at his elbow, smiled generously at the men, and said, “Ah, my handsome young assistant. Just a minute, you all.”

Tom followed Greg to a nearby table. “ _You all_?” Greg asked, leaning across the table, and Tom glared at him.

“I’m trying to mirror their vernacular, Greg. It’s a negotiating tactic, alright?”

Greg’s mouth quirked, brow furrowed. “And what, uh—what, per se, are we negotiating? With these men who we’re perhaps not supposed to be seen, uh, to be liking, exactly?”

“ _We_ aren’t negotiating anything, Gregory. _I_ am negotiating the potential sale of some very lucrative ad spots with these upstanding gentlemen, who just happen to be big heads in the firearm lobby. Okay? Does my tagalong business tactician approve? Hmm?”

“Well, I’m not really sure about like the optics of the—” Tom scoffed at him, and Greg looked down, shaking his head. “Look, I just—there’s been, like, a problem? With the reservation, I guess?”

Tom set his glass down on the table. “Greg.”

“So, uh, I guess that we are perhaps going to need to share a room? Because there are, it seems, no others left?” Greg rubbed the back of his neck.

“Are you shitting me right now? First they can’t bring in our luggage, then we have to sit beneath the watchful eye of these disembodied fucking animal corpses all day, and now they can’t even get our reservation right? One fucking room, my god. Well, run along and fix it, Greg,” Tom said, shooing him off.

“Look, man, I tried. I did. I asked multiple people. I spoke to, like, the manager of the manager. I guess there’s some kind of equestrian conference also here, like in addition to whatever media conference thing we’re at right now? So there is, like, literally nothing left. They said it’s lucky they even had the one room because the reservation got lost.”

“An equestrian conference? In the middle of fucking winter? Do they know who I am, Greg? Did you mention that?”

“I did. I swear I did. But they really couldn’t do anything. I’m sorry, man. I tried.”

“Fucking Christ. Well, Greg, enjoy your evening. I myself will be continuing to court these nouveau riche oil-money fucks. I’d recommend you get drunk enough you sleep like the dead, because the mattresses in this frontier hellhole are probably stuffed with straw.”

* * *

Greg woke up at 2:00 a.m. to the overhead light blaring in his eyes, Tom standing over him. Drunk Tom could go two ways: a) surprisingly friendly and generous or b) an even more entitled, insecure prick than sober Tom. This drunk Tom had his tie loosened, shirt half unbuttoned. He looked sweaty. Greg guessed this was Drunk Tom B and whined pitifully, shoved his face back in the pillow.

Greg was always doing this to himself, foolishly crossing his fingers for Tom the Good and letting himself get disappointed when Tom the Dick showed up. But the nice Tom was one of his best friends, and the times he did show up almost made the run-ins with dick Tom worth it. Greg had once said something like that to his mother, and she’d said it sounded like he was in an abusive relationship. But it wasn’t like they were dating—and it wasn’t like Greg had nothing on Tom himself—so who fucking cared?

Tom tugged his hair. “Who do you think you are, pig man, taking the bed? You fucked this up for both of us, buddy. You take the floor. I’m not sleeping down there with that ratty pelt.”

Greg rolled to his back, pillow over his face. “We could, you know, share?”

“Are you fucking joking, Greg? Think of all the goddamn HR infractions that would be.” Tom yanked the comforter off him, and Greg wrapped his arms around his bare torso in the cold. “Out, out, out. Get out.”

Greg rolled out of the bed, grumbling, and brushed past Tom to dig through the closet for extra blankets, stepping carefully around the cowskin rug.

“Look at you, getting all comfy in the bed, not even wearing a shirt. Somebody looking for a little skin-to-skin heart-to-heart with the boss?” Tom was fluffing the pillows on the bed, straightening the linens back out. Greg pretended not to have heard him as he laid out a skimpy pallet on the floor.

“Huh, Greg?” Tom asked, stepping in front of him and forcing his face into Greg’s line of sight.

“Tom, can you just . . . not? Right now? Please. I’m just, like—I’m really tired, right now? And I don’t really think I can, like, navigate you in my current state?”

“The fuck do you mean, _navigate me_ , Greg? What is that?”

“I don’t know, man,” Greg said, exasperated. He sat down on his stack of blankets on the floor, put his head in his hands. Tom just stood there glaring down at him with his hands on his hips. “Can I please sleep?”

“Whatever, Greg. Fine. Go the fuck to sleep.” Greg stretched out and pulled the blankets over his head until Tom finally turned out the lights twenty minutes later.

“Sleep tight down there with the cows, cocksuck. I’m waking you up in four hours.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh no it's snowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🤠🤠🤠
> 
> edit 12/8/20: my bud [theremin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theremin/pseuds/theremin) made this perfect moodboard for us!! :D

Tom threw the light on at 5:55 a.m., nudged Greg’s back with his socked foot. “Rise and shine, cowpoke. Let’s eat breakfast and get the fuck out of here before we run into another deplatformed piece of shit.”

Tom was standing there in a dress shirt and boxers, and Greg stared up from the floor at Tom’s bare knees, felt a thought about HR infractions brush through his head that he was too sleepy to chase. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders to cover up his morning wood as he stood up and went to the bathroom, Tom shadowing behind him.

“Dude, can I get, like, some privacy? Like just a little bit, please?”

“Someone’s testy,” Tom said. “Sleep badly?”

“These joints just weren’t made for sleeping on the floor, I guess.” Greg shut the door slowly in Tom’s face. His back really did hurt, and his shoulder and knees ached where they’d been pressed into the ground. He folded up the blanket and set it next to the counter, then turned on the shower. He pressed the heel of his palm against his dick almost absentmindedly through his pajamas, stifling a groan.

Just then Tom knocked at the door and Greg turned away hurriedly, cursing under his breath. “Hey, buddy,” Tom called, “I just need to brush my teeth.”

“Yeah—Tom, can I just get, like, ten minutes?”

“Sure, Greg, take your sweet time. Nowhere to be!”

Greg rolled his eyes and got in the shower in a rush, worrying Tom would barge in. He washed quickly, then just stood there in the hot water, hoping it would ease some of the ache in his joints. Tom was stressing him the fuck out, if he was honest. It felt good to be needed, to do things Tom wouldn’t trust anyone else with, but in situations like this one that tested Tom’s self-confidence or his company status, the man could be unbearable.

Greg was stressed, and tired, and achy, and yet at the same time distractingly horny. His erection had hardly waned, as much as he’d tried to ignore it, tried to avoid lingering too much as he washed. Despite his antsyness about Tom waiting in the room outside, he thought maybe he could chill out a little bit if he could rub a quick one out.

He shuddered out a breath as he gripped himself, imagining Tom coming in to find him like this, picturing the shock on his face. Greg thought of what Tom might say, the stupid quips he might make, and grimaced. He had to hurry up here—as he began to stroke himself he saw himself wrapping an arm around Tom’s neck from behind him to clamp his mouth shut, grinding against his ass. He imagined high moans escaping from between his fingers, imagined the feel of Tom’s shoulders under his hands, imagined _Greg Greg Greg_ in Tom’s voice in his ear.

He fucked his hand imagining it was Tom’s loud fucking mouth, and when he thought of Tom on his knees, Tom’s blue eyes looking up at him with fond adoration, Tom’s mouth full of his cock, he choked on his breath and came hard, his torso coiled up taut and shuddering.

And of course Tom chose just then to come in, while Greg was still catching his breath. Tom eased the door open, called, “Greg?”— _Greg Greg Greg_ —“I’m coming in.”

Greg crouched down in the floor of the shower like an idiot. “Tom. Tom,” he said, like an idiot, still breathless. “Dude. I’m almost done. Can you just—”

“That’s too fucking bad, cocksuck. You’re taking forever in here. Other people need to use the facility.” Tom ran the hot water tap and the shower turned cold. Greg lurched up to turn it off.

“Dude, that’s fucking cold! Just let me get out.”

“Get out then, Greg. We don’t have time for prudishness.”

Greg braced himself to reach for a towel, not sure if he should work harder to hide his blushing face or his blushing dick. He leaned out, shoulders turned to Tom, not looking at him, and wrapped himself up. Tom was spitting out his toothpaste when Greg stepped out, and he hurried through the door before Tom could look up. He pulled on clothes haphazard and still damp.

Tom left his suitcase for Greg to carry when they left the room a few minutes later, watched Greg struggle to get both their luggage into the elevator before rolling his eyes and taking his own back. Greg still felt like he was blushing furiously, and he refused to look at Tom’s face, just in case it was obvious. His bottom lip was sore where he’d bitten it, and he hadn’t had the chance to look in the mirror to see if it had bled.

The hall from the elevators to the hotel restaurant took them past the indoor pool. Someone threw the door open just as they started past, and Tom nearly ran into the man, who had a towel draped over his stocky bare shoulders. He’d been mere inches from dripping sweaty poolwater all over Tom’s oxfords.

“Jesus, guy, do you—” Greg elbowed him, and Tom shut the fuck up and tried to paste on a friendly smile when he finally recognized the man’s face.

“Oh, man, you guys are with ATN, right?” the man said.

“Uh, no, actually, we—” Tom started to answer but was promptly interrupted.

“Yeah, hey, great talk yesterday. Gotta stick up for our freedom of speech in this fire-and-fucking-brimstone mediascape, am I right? All these liberal pussies out here trying to fondle our balls constantly.”

“Sure, but we’re not—”

“Listen, man, I know who you fucking are. I keep my eagle eye out on all the big media targets, alright? So don’t fuck around with me like your bullshit little outlet didn’t shit all over me when the liberal elite started sucking y’all off. Fuckin’ bastards.” He started to push past them, and Tom flinched back.

“Well,” Tom said, “I have no idea what you could possibly mean, as I do not and have never worked for ATN or any of its counterparts. But, uh, it was so nice talking to you.” The elevator doors were closing in front of the man by the time Tom shut up. He grabbed Greg’s elbow and towed him into the hotel restaurant.

Tom whispered in his ear furiously in the buffet line. “Again, Greg? Alex fucking Jones. Twice in one weekend. We’re lucky there’re no goddamn paparazzi here. Logan would have our heads on a goddamn pike. God, can you imagine the tabloids? Christ almighty. If you hadn’t taken so long in the fucking shower this would never have happened. I feel like I’m towing a ten-foot fucking teenager around.”

Greg just nodded and tried to smile reassuringly, hoping Tom would talk himself out. They sat down at a table, and moments later the pilot of their Waystar jet walked in. Greg waved at her, then stood up in a rush to greet her as she stepped toward their table.

Tom whisper-yelled at him: “What are you doing, Greg? Sit down.” He sat down.

The pilot smiled awkwardly when she got to them. “Sirs, I’m so sorry about this, but with the weather as it is today we’re going to have to delay your flight back until likely tomorrow.”

In unison Tom and Greg looked out the window. It was snowing heavily; it had snowed, in fact, quite a lot already. They looked back at each other—the first time Greg had met Tom’s eye since before Tom had basically walked in on him masturbating about him. Greg felt his eyes go awkwardly round and unfocused as they looked at each other, but Tom just scoffed at him and turned his irritation to the pilot.

“Are you serious?” he asked her.

“Afraid so.”

“And you couldn’t give us any sooner warning than this?”

“Would it have helped?”

“Excuse me?” Tom asked, looking like he was about to stand up, but the pilot held up her hands.

“My apologies. I’m sorry, really. But no, we hoped things would clear up by this morning, but that doesn’t seem to be happening.” She cleared her throat. “As you can see.”

Tom waved her off. “Fine. Thank you. Keep us updated, please. I’d really like not to be here any longer than absolutely necessary, alright?” The pilot nodded and walked off.

Tom took his last prim bite of food and looked up at Greg. “When you’ve had your fill of rubbery meats, I need you to go see if they have another room for us.”

Greg shoveled the rest of his plate clean and stood up, his chair scraping on the floor. Tom winced. Greg took a few long strides toward the door and backtracked.

“Is it alright—I mean, do you mind if, like, can I leave the bags here?”

“No. Obviously not, Greg. See if they’ll hold them for us so we don’t have to fucking tote them around all day.”

“Right,” Greg said, and wrestled the luggage to the foyer. As he feared, they still didn’t have any spare rooms, because the equestrian conference was still going, and all the people who’d showed up for this bullshit media bias gathering were stuck there just like they were. The only one left was the one they'd stayed in the night before. Greg carried their bags back up and collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the popcorn ceiling.

The truth was Greg wasn’t terribly upset about having to share a room with Tom again. It was awkward, sure, and sleeping on the floor next to a cowskin for a second night was somewhat less than appealing. But maybe with the day off Tom would chill out a little bit, and they could hang out like they did at Greg’s apartment some weekends. The concierge had mentioned there was an easy hike they could do nearby. Greg hoped Tom would go for it, that the snow would let up a little, so they wouldn’t have to just sit around all day.

He stood up and looked in the mirror by the door. There was a small red sore on his lower lip, but he didn’t think it was too noticeable. He’d dressed casually in his rush that morning, and he was glad now that he didn’t have to change out of his jeans and sweater. He thought of how well coiffed Tom’s hair always was and pushed his own out of his face; it fell back over his forehead.

His phone rang: Tom.

“Where the fuck did you go?” Tom asked.

“I’m just, uh, I’m in the room.”

“What room, Greg?” _Greg Greg Greg._

“Uh, um. Our room? The, uh, the one from last night? They just, like, gave us the same one?”

“What happened with getting another one?”

“There, like, weren’t any still.”

“Jesus. Alright. I’m coming up.”

“Okay, that’s—” Greg started, but Tom had already hung up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re into the masturbation bit, you should read thehungagayums’s [“I would rather go there with you,”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27014845/chapters/65948662) which is a work of genius that also makes a whole artsy feast of Tom Wamb confronting his repression while he jerks it
> 
> Also, just to be 100% clear, Alex Jones can fuck off all the way to hell. I just couldn't stop thinking about how Tom would act if he actually ran into him--like trying to keep up with and sort of deescalate Jones's deranged machismo while also freaking out about being seen with him


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a couple of bros on a hike, nothin to see here

Despite Tom’s apparent irritation with literally everything else about their situation, he was excited about the prospect of a hike. He didn’t seem like a guy who would enjoy being outside, but he could raise an adorable amount of enthusiasm for the strangest things.

They changed shoes—Tom had brought his new hiking boots, just in case—and dug out their coats, then stopped by the front desk for directions and headed out. The hike was only supposed to take an hour, and given that it was still snowing, Greg doubted they’d want to be out longer than that. But he stuffed some bags of trail mix from the vending machine in his pockets just in case.

Tom was mostly quiet as they picked out the thankfully well-marked trail in the snow. Just as Greg was getting used to the companionable silence, Tom asked, “How’s the dating life for the Talented Mr. Greg, huh?”

“Oh, you know, just, like, don’t quite have the spare energy for all that?”

“Come on, Greg. You’re not that busy.”

“I am, actually,” he said. “And it’s not like I don’t have friends.”

Tom snorted. “You don’t have fucking friends.”

“Yes, I do, Tom. I, like, go to dinner parties?”

“Sure, but when, man? You hang out with me like every weekend.”

“I mean, like, exactly. Why do you think I don’t have time to date? I’m basically dating you, dude, you know?”

“No, you’re not, Greg. That’s fucking absurd. We are not dating. We do normal friend things. If you think this is dating then maybe you _shouldn’t_ date.” Tom shut up for a minute while they stepped over a fallen branch and then picked his tirade right back up again. “Seriously, Greg, RIP to the fucker who chats you up looking for a nice dinner and a dicking down and shows up to find you tripping over your extension-cord shoelaces up and down the sidewalk, begging somebody to help you like you’re not the one who forgot to tie them.”

Greg shook his head, looking out into the trees. There was really no point in trying to defend himself—Tom would just dig in further. “I mean, alright.”

Tom stepped in front of him on the path. “Listen, Greg. You don’t take this kind of shit from people you’re dating, right?”

“I told you, I’m not dating anyone.”

“But you _have_ , right?”

“Fine, yes. I went out with someone after I moved to New York, but it just, you know, like, it wasn’t quite the right time? It didn’t work out. So, like, whatever, you know?” He wasn’t lying—he had gone on a date in his first couple of months in the city, with a slightly older white guy, who treated him to a fancy dinner. Greg had been grateful for the trial run, as it were, he’d had with Tom, that time Shiv was in Washington.

But then the guy had looked at him across the table and said, _Listen—handsome young guy like you, new to the city, it’s gotta be rough. Let me help get you on your feet. I’m looking for a companion, you know, just somebody to have fun with is really all it is. I think we could work out something nice._ And as attractive as the prospect was for a guy who’d recently escaped a bout of poverty, that was all too much like Tom and at the same time not _enough_ like Tom that Greg got himself all tangled up in a confusing mess of _not into it._ So yeah, didn’t quite work out.

“Sure,” Tom said. “Look, I don’t need to know all the positions you fucked in, Greg, so you don’t need to stand there wracking your memory, alright? Just—there’s a startling ratio of assholes in the city and you look like you’re just begging to be taken advantage of half the time, okay? So don’t take shit from other people just because you take shit from me.”

“Right.” _Rich_ , Greg thought, _coming from you._

Tom was right at eye level, standing higher up on the incline, and he leaned down into Greg’s face. “I mean it, Greg.”

“Alright. I get it, man. I think it’s getting colder. Should we, like . . . ?” He gestured past Tom, up the trail.

Tom frowned, nodded, and turned to resume the hike. He nattered on about Tom things, wondering whether anybody at Waystar had noticed their extended absence, angsting about whether Alex Jones would mention them on his show, pontificating on the potential windfall from the ideas he’d floated past his new contacts the night before. Greg still felt a little uncertain about courting the firearm lobby, but Tom was so thrilled about the prospect that he tried to be supportive.

When Tom quieted down after a while, Greg asked, “How’s, uh, like, your dating going? Like, the arrangement setup? Did you ever decide to take Shiv up on all that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Greg snuck a glance at him; he was glaring ahead up the trail. “Well, uh, I did ask, I guess?”

“Well, I haven’t. Not really. It’s too, just—” Tom faltered. “You know?”

“Um, uh huh. Yeah.”

“I still don’t know why in the fuck I told you about that,” Tom said.

“One too many puffs of the old reefer, I guess.”

Tom laughed at that, said, “You’re an awful influence, Greg, you know that?”

At the top of the hike, along a windy bluff, they shared one of the bags of trail mix. Tom let Greg have all the candy bits, claiming the sweetness hurt his teeth, and it was just plausible enough that Greg didn’t argue. He tried not to read anything into it, or into Tom’s weirdly protective demands about his dating comportment, or into Tom’s tipsy comment the night before about Greg being his “handsome young assistant.” It was hard work not reading into things, though, and it kept him a little detached from the conversation. Still, Tom seemed not to notice if he was quieter than usual.

Tom got a call on the way down, and Greg guessed by Tom’s beseeching tone of voice and the rise of his shoulders that it was from Shiv. Tom explained to her that their flight had been delayed, apologized over and over again for missing the afternoon executives’ meeting; Greg wondered why he hadn’t mentioned the delay to anyone at Waystar before then. He seemed tense after he hung up, and Greg didn’t ask questions.

When they were back in sight of the hotel, Greg fell behind Tom, claiming he needed to tie his shoe. He lobbed a loose snowball at Tom’s back, and Tom whirled on him so fast he flinched.

“Are you fucking serious right now, Greg?” he asked, his eyes bright. He bent to gather snow. “What are you, fucking twelve?”

“No, I just—” Tom’s snowball exploded on his face, leaving his nose and eyelid numb. He was wiping the snow out of his eyes when Tom tackled him to the ground with a crazed laugh. Greg tried to roll away, but Tom pinned him down with a knee on his back, giving him another face full of snow. Greg screeched, indignant, as Tom shoved snow under the collar of his sweater, down his back.

Satisfied, Tom collapsed onto his back in the snow, and Greg rolled over next to him, dazed, and futilely wiped his face on his coat sleeve. Their breath puffed out in the air above them.

“What the fuck, Tom?” Greg asked.

“You win some, you lose some, buddy.” Tom stood up, held a hand down to Greg. “Let’s get warmed up, huh?” Greg took his hand suspiciously and stood up mostly on his own, letting Tom think he was helping. Greg’s hands were red and frozen and Tom’s gloves were soaked through. They stomped the snow off their boots on the entry rug but they still dripped dirty puddles in the elevator.

“Christ, it’s colder than a witch’s tit in here,” Tom said in the room. Greg stood shivering in front of the bed while Tom crossed the room to fiddle with the thermostat on the glorified window unit. It didn’t come on. He kicked it. Still nothing.

“Call the desk,” Tom said.

“Dude, I’m fucking freezing. Like, I think my sweater might be frozen to my skin? I’m going to shower. I don’t want to, like, lose appendages, you know? Is that okay?”

“Sure, Greg. Whatever. I’ll just take care of this.” Greg rifled through his suitcase for a change of clothes, and Tom was picking up the bedside phone when he stepped into the bathroom. He stood in the shower until the hot water ran out, which was not as long as he would’ve liked, and he was chilled again by the cool air in the bathroom by the time he got dressed.

He left his sweater over the shower curtain rod to dry and hung up his damp coat on a hanger.

“Looks like we’re SOL on the heater, buddy. The repairman went into town and can’t get back out here until tomorrow.”

“Fuck,” Greg said, teeth chattering. He dug an extra shirt out of his bag and curled up on his pallet on the floor, wishing he had more than the thin sheet and threadbare blanket.

“God, you’re pathetic. Get up here. I refuse to sit here and listen to your teeth clacking all evening.”

“Like, in the bed?” Greg asked, sitting up, the cold accentuating the ache in his joints.

“Yes, in the bed, Greg. Come on, bundle up.” Tom stood up to make room, and Greg lay down in the warm spot where he’d been sitting. Tom spread the extra blankets from the floor over him. “If your teeth keep chattering I’m putting the cowskin on you,” he said.

Tom sat down in one of the beaten-up chairs in the corner and rifled through the room service menu. “I’m gonna order us some food and booze. What do you want?”

“Don’t care. You pick,” Greg said. He was still too cold to care much about food options. Tom always ordered for him when they went to nice places: Tom knew what he liked and would probably order something nicer than he would’ve chosen for himself anyway.

“Can you make, like, some coffee?” Greg asked after Tom had ordered their dinner.

“Absolutely not,” Tom said. “That coffeepot is guaranteed to be a forest of molds, Greg. No way.”

“Well, I’m fucking cold. I’m pretty sure I can feel the draft through the blankets, dude.”

“Do you want the cow pelt?”

“You know, I really do not. I do not want the cow pelt.”

“Then what else do you want me to do for you, Needy Mr. Greg?”

“Can you just, like, come in here? Like I think maybe body heat would help? Like a living afghan, or something?”

“You’ve been watching too many Hallmark movies, Greg,” Tom said, but he was already getting up from the chair. “Fine. Roll over then.” Greg rolled to his back in the middle of the bed.

“How do you want to do this?” Tom asked, sliding under the blankets.

“I don’t know, man, but can you, like, put the covers down? You’re letting all the cold air in.”

“Do you literally want me to lay on top of you or what? I don’t want to do this and find out you’ve filed an HR report when we get back, Greg, alright?”

“I won’t. I swear to god.” He rolled to his side, facing away from Tom. “Can you just, like, spoon me?”

“ _Spoon_ you, Greg? Christ, the shit I do for you.” Greg felt Tom shuffling around behind him, then Tom’s warmth down his spine and along the backs of his thighs. Tom fiddled with the blankets over their shoulders until Greg reached back and took his hand and pulled his arm over his chest.

“Your hands are fucking cold, Greg, Jesus.” _Greg Greg Greg_ , right in his ear.

“Um. Yeah, like—I tried to tell you?” Greg was still shivering slightly, but with Tom wrapped around him he finally started to warm up. He was getting sleepy, too comfortable to think about how mortifying the situation ought to have been. He had expected Tom to lay there wheedling him until Greg got tired of it and decided he was warm enough, even if he wasn’t actually. But Tom was surprisingly quiet, and Greg dozed off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not live in a place where it snows like ever but I'm aware it's kind of implausible they'd actually be able to hike if the planes can't go. but listen, I just want Tom to be able to go on a hike! he was so excited about the culture hike at Argestes and it got interrupted by Waystar’s shitty surveillance practices!
> 
> If you’re into the Greg with a sugar daddy bit, you should read tiigi’s [“Corporate Espionage and Other Ways to Flirt,”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26559976/chapters/64747732) in which Tom actually is Greg’s sugar daddy, and it’s all very excellent.
> 
> I hope my US friends are doing alright today on the eve of our national reckoning. I'm hounding out all the extra serotonin I can get today and I'm hoping this'll give y'all a little boost <3 I should have another chapter ready for tomorrow too!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Greg play a little drinking game to pass the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *taps the “repression” tag* *and the Siken quote at the beginning* 
> 
> buckle up, fuckleheads

Greg woke up, probably only a few minutes later, when Tom got out of bed to bring in the room service. Greg sat up, and Tom handed him his plate to eat in bed.

“It was the only pasta option they had,” Tom said. “Hope it’s good.” He poured wine for them from the bottle he’d ordered, set a glass for Greg on the nightstand, and sat down at the desk to eat his own food.

After he’d eaten, Greg felt almost back to normal, with hot carbs in his belly and the remnants of Tom’s body heat in the bed with him. “I’m still cold,” he said, holding his plate out for Tom to take. Tom just looked at him, eyebrows raised slightly. And then he got up, took the plate, grabbed the bottle of wine, and set it on the nightstand.

“Sit forward,” Tom said. “I don’t want to lie down anymore. Not ready to sleep.” He crawled into the bed, settling in with his legs bent up on either side of Greg and his back against the pillows. He gently tugged Greg’s upper arms until Greg leaned back against him. Greg pulled the blankets up over his shoulders and hunched his neck forward to keep his head off Tom’s chest.

“Are your hands still cold?” Tom asked.

“Um, like, a little, I guess?”

“Well, don’t be a prude, Greg. Take my skin heat.”

“What is—um, your _skin heat_?” This all felt very bizarre, even for Tom, and Greg wondered how strong the wine was.

“Yes, _Greg_ , put your hands on my ankles or something. The skin contact helps. I always let Shiv put her hands under my shirt when she’s cold. Yeah?”

“I mean, alright.” Greg swallowed. “Thanks?” Hesitantly he reached down to wrap his hands around Tom’s ankles, then slid up under the hem of his sweatpants until he felt the skin above his socks. Even to Greg it felt overly intimate, like a caress, although he hadn’t meant it like that. He was just trying to do what Tom told him to. He really didn’t feel all that cold anymore, but Tom’s skin was hot under his hands.

“Let’s play a game,” Tom said.

“Is it like a Roy game? Because if it is—I mean, if so, then I am, like, extremely unlikely to be interested.”

“No, you big buffoon. It’s a Wambsgame,” Tom said, sounding very pleased with himself.

“Uh, a Wambgsame? Like the Thanksgiving thing?”

“No. More like a question game. We each get to ask the other five questions, and you have to answer straight or you drink.”

“I don’t know if that sounds very fun.” Greg could feel a rapid thudding in his chest, but he wasn’t sure if it was his pulse or Tom’s.

“Come on, Greg. Don’t be a spoilsport.” Tom squeezed his shoulders. “Do you want to just lie here in silence then? Like two smitten lovers in a canoe under a full moon?”

“Uh, but, like, this doesn’t seem even at all reminiscent of—”

“I’ll start,” Tom said. “I’ll ask my five first, and then you can do yours. Some people in my family like to take turns, but I feel like it just works better this way, you know?”

“Um, absolutely.” Greg nodded, glad Tom couldn’t see his face because he was certain his traitor eyes were telegraphing every bit of his absolute terror in that moment. “Sure.”

Tom leaned over behind Greg to pour more wine into his glass. His legs shifted with the movement, and Greg wasn’t sure if he was supposed to keep touching them or not—was it weirder to keep touching them? or weirder to stop, as if he didn’t need to anymore, when he’d implicitly agreed that he _did_ need to? He decided status quo was best and left his hands where they were. Tom’s shuffling had slid Greg down uncomfortably in the bed, and he scooched back, wincing when Tom huffed out a breath behind him.

“Sorry,” Greg said, and Tom cleared his throat.

“Alright, Greg. First question. Fuck, marry, kill: Shiv, Roman, Kendall.”

“Fuck, Tom—they’re my cousins, dude. Like, what the fuck, man?”

“It’s hypothetical, Greg,” Tom said. He held the wine glass out in front of Greg. “And drink. You gotta answer straight, buddy.”

Greg shook his head and took a sip. “Fine. I guess—kill Shiv?”

“You’re killing my wife, Greg?”

“Well, yeah, I mean, I can’t fuck her, because you’re married to her, and I can’t marry her, because you’re married to her. So, like, I guess I have to kill her. Sorry.”

“Whatever. Go on.”

“Uh, I guess, marry Kendall? Because at least he likes me sometimes? Like, at least I’d be stuck with someone who would maybe occasionally actually enjoy my company?”

“Jesus, Greg, that’s grim.”

“And then, uh, fuck Roman, I guess?” Greg grimaced. “Not because I really want to but just because, like, that’s all that’s left really? And it’d probably be really awful and degraded but at least it’d only be, like, the one time.”

“So you fuck dudes?”

“Um, is this, like, the second question, or?”

“I don’t know, Greg, is it? Drink.”

Greg took a sip, still not sure if that had actually been a question or not. He handed the glass back and Tom drained it himself, then refilled it.

Greg was basically sitting in Tom’s lap, in a bed, in a hotel, and as thrilled as half of him felt about all that, the other half of him was uncomfortably confused about Tom’s intentions. Was Tom asking about his sexual preferences because he was actually interested, or just to fuck with him?

“But, um, was that actually a question? Like, am I supposed to answer it, really? Because you were just talking about, like, HR praxis and—”

“I feel like you’re pretty much answering the question right now, Gregory, huh?” Tom poked him in the ribs, right where he was ticklish, and Greg flinched away, not quite ready to reveal that weakness.

“Do you have a hard-on right now, Gregory?”

Greg sputtered. “I—what? Um, I guess, no?” Tom held out the glass, and Greg drank. He really didn’t have a hard-on, but just then Tom wrapped an arm around his chest, holding Greg against him, and as Greg shifted in his grip he realized that maybe, perhaps, Tom had one himself. So possibly, he thought, this was Tom’s absolutely demented attempt at flirting?

“Answer, Greg,” Tom said in his ear, and all Greg heard was _Greg Greg Greg_ , and he cursed under his breath as his cock began to swell with the fantasy he’d spun that morning in the shower.

“I don’t, really,” Greg said. “I just—my body isn’t used to being touched like this? Like, by other humans? And so it’s just, like, reacting in a way that’s maybe not very socially okay, but, like, there’s not really anything I can do about it?”

“You’re such a fucking cocksuck, Greg. Do you just want a cock in your mouth at all times?”

“This doesn’t seem like a very good game, Tom. Are these the actual questions? Because, like—”

“Drink, Greg.” Greg had been taking only small sips each time, but his hold on this situation was definitely deteriorating. He felt more drunk from Tom’s inexplicable barrage of unexpectedly sexual questions than from the wine.

Before he could think of a way to answer that question, Tom asked another. “Do you want my cock in your mouth, Greg? Hmm?” He paused, and when Greg didn’t answer, he said, “Don’t make me make you drink.”

“Fine, I just—uh, I don’t know. Maybe? I might, I guess? Like, if it became a thing that was asked of me to do, like, on a professional level, at some point?”

“On a _professional level_ , Greg? What are you, an escort?”

“I mean, no? I don’t know, Tom.” Greg sat up, Tom’s arm falling from around his chest, and turned sideways to look at him. “Are you being serious right now, dude? Because it feels weird to sit here, like in your lap, basically, and answer all this honestly, like, if you’re just fucking with me?”

“Fuck you, Greg.” Tom glared at him and turned away to sit on the edge of the bed.

Greg looked at his back. “Dude, you can just, like, ask? If that’s what you want. Just ask?”

“I said _fuck off_ , Greg. God, you’re pathetic. I don’t need shit from you.”

Greg swung his legs over the edge of the bed to sit next to Tom, their thighs nearly touching. Tom was still staring at the wall; Greg looked at his own hands in his lap.

“Like maybe, maybe you did though. Need something,” Greg said. “Maybe you do? And all you would have to do is just, like, say it, you know? If you did?”

When Tom looked over at him, his eyes were absolutely deranged, his mouth a fierce thin line. Greg met his gaze, then looked down at the scar above his lip, the faint red stain of the wine on his mouth, and he thought of Tom talking about little nudey turtles, and of how scared and lonely Tom seemed, even if he pretended he wasn’t. And Greg thought that maybe if he could just show Tom how to come out of his shell, show him that it was safe to, then Tom could do it.

Greg leaned over and kissed him, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see Tom glaring at him. He half expected Tom to deck him on the spot, but then Tom breathed into him and kissed him back. Tom was pulling his hair, tugging at his shirt, kissing him hard enough to bruise. Greg opened his mouth, tasted the wine on his tongue, inhaled the high desperate sound Tom made when he did it. But when he brought up his hand to hold Tom’s face, Tom broke away and stood up in a rush, backing away from him.

Tom’s cheeks were red and his jaw set, hands fidgeting and straightening his shirt. He turned away, not looking at Greg. “I said _fuck off_ , pig man. So fuck off, yeah? Look at you, just walking around assaulting people like you can afford the fucking settlement. Christ.” Greg just sat there nursing his whiplash as Tom threw on his coat over his pajamas and shoved his feet into shoes and slammed out of the room.

Greg waited up, hoping Tom would come back, but eventually decided just to go to sleep. Tom was impulsive, but he wasn’t stupid enough to, like, get lost out in the snow or something. Greg wasn’t about to give up the bed, though, so he turned out the lights, curled up as close to the edge as he could, and passed out.

He didn’t know when Tom got back, but when he woke up early the next morning, Tom was curled up in a defensive ball on the other side of the bed, his back looming over Greg. He hadn’t gotten under the covers, still had his shoes and coat on. It was too early for breakfast, so not knowing what else to do, Greg drifted back off to sleep.

When he woke up again with the sunrise, Tom was gone, and all his luggage with him. Greg dressed and packed and rushed down to the hotel restaurant, hoping Tom would still be down there, fear pricking his brain that Tom might’ve just left him here to rot with the likely white supremacists and homophobes in Old West hell. Greg scanned the breakfast crowd for Tom, and he’d just decided to allow himself a little abandonment panic when he spotted their pilot.

She nodded at him when he stopped by her table, said, “We’re leaving in thirty. Wambsgans is already on the plane.”

“Right, uh, thanks. Thanks.” He grabbed a plate of food and sat down at a table by himself to eat, but he wasn’t all that hungry.

Tom didn’t look up at him when he got on the jet twenty minutes later, didn’t acknowledge him during the flight, didn’t say goodbye to him when they landed back in New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY
> 
> (next chapter's almost ready and I am doing my level best to make up for this one!)
> 
> stay safe if you're out voting today, US buds!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the office.

In the office on Monday Tom acted like absolutely nothing had changed. In the breakroom he gave Greg a rough pat on the shoulder, a “Hey, buddy!” as enthusiastic as ever. Greg stepped into Tom’s office cautiously with his midmorning coffee, still trying to decide whether he should apologize for kissing him, even though he was pretty sure Tom had been into it, or if he should go along with the act that it hadn’t even happened.

“Tom, uh, listen. I just wanted to, um—”

Tom began to look a little panicked as he registered Greg’s potential contrition and quickly cut him off. “Hey, thanks for the latte, buddy. I’ve got to catch up on a truly unbelievable number of shit sandwiches today, so if you don’t mind?” He looked meaningfully at the door, and Greg let himself out.

Tom so diligently avoided any serious conversation with him or any mention of the trip that, despite Greg’s lingering discomfited confusion, he almost could’ve forgotten about it. But then the conference’s host foundation published a follow-up press release, enthusiastically naming Tom as the event’s keynote speaker. And of course Pierce picked up the story: “ATN Headlines at Alt-Right Media Conference.”

Greg knew exactly when the bomb went off on the executive floor; he was standing in Tom’s office when Tom got the summons to come up. Logan had called an emergency meeting, and he wanted both of them there.

Logan was roaring the second they got through the door: “What in the goddamn fuck have you two cunts done to my network?”

Greg cowered behind Tom in the doorway until Tom finally sat down at the conference table. Greg tried to sit in one of the corner chairs, but Logan shook his head, pointing at him.

“Get the fuck up here, Greg. I know you had a part in this.” Greg slunk into a chair at the table, between Tom and Kendall, neither of whom looked at him, and Logan turned to Tom. “Now, Tom. Tell me there’s some way to interpret all this that doesn’t equate to ‘Tom tried to fuck me.’”

“I’m sorry, sir, I just—well, ah, we were attempting to bolster ATN’s reputation with some, ah, speaking engagements. And it seems that we picked, perhaps, not quite the best one.”

“Well, you’re fucking right about that. You’ve jeopardized the deal with PGM—you do realize that? Why in the fuck would they go with us now? _Best behavior_ , I said. You thought you were taking the hits before. Well, you dumb fuck, you’re going to be taking some more, that’s for fucking certain.”

“Yes, sir,” Tom said, bravely attempting to meet Logan’s furious stare. “I’m absolutely ready to—”

“Now, all of you, tell me what the fuck we’re going to do about this,” Logan said.

Roman raised a mocking eyebrow and a smirk at Tom and Greg, said to Logan, “Oh, come on, Dad, it’ll blow over in days. It’s just a fucking press release from some bullshit midwestern conspiracy org. That’s it—it’s a load of fucking nothing.”

“No—no, I think we need to get ahead of this. Maybe we should, uh, release a counterstatement?” Kendall asked.

“But are there even pictures?” Roman asked. “Can anyone even prove this is true?’

“A counterstatement gives too much gravity to it,” Gerri said. “And what would we even say? ‘Oops’? We can’t just admit that our executives were too stupid to investigate the conference they signed up to speak at.” Gerri looked at Tom and shrugged, not quite apologetically, and Greg blushed.

“Then what?” Logan asked.

“I think let’s just ride it out,” Gerri said. “It’s not a great look by any means, but it shouldn’t be a real issue.”

“And PGM?” Kendall asked.

“They might not like it, but quite frankly, they might find any number of things they don’t like at any time,” Gerri said, not looking at Logan.

“Fine. We ride it out,” Logan said. “Meeting’s over. Fuck off.” He watched everyone file out but called Tom back when he got to the door, Greg on his heels.

“Tom.”

“Ah, yes. Yes, sir?” Tom turned around, almost bumping into Greg.

“You better not’ve fucked this deal for me.”

“Ah. Right. I’ll do my best to—”

“Tom? Fuck off.”

* * *

Greg spent a few weekends listless and bored in his apartment before Tom asked him to hang out again. Kendall had used his place for a party one weeknight, but other than that Greg’s social life had been sparse. But Shiv was out of town, Tom said; he asked Greg out to dinner like he hadn’t been studiously avoiding any mention of weekend activities since they got back from the conference weeks ago.

So they went out. Greg had gotten a new dress shirt, and he asked Tom what he thought of it.

“Like, do you think it’s a good color on me? I’m just not sure if it’s too much?”

Tom appraised him across the table, tugging at his turtleneck. “No, I think it’s good. It looks nice. On, you know, a professional level.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Greg blinked at him, shocked at the callback—the first indication Tom had given that he didn’t have amnesia about their encounter. But then Tom changed the subject, and Greg let it go, not wanting to make things awkward.

The next week, Tom was looking over a memo Greg had drafted, and said almost offhandedly, “Yeah, buddy, I think this is fine, on a professional level. Go ahead and send it out.”

Greg walked out of his office in a bit of a daze, confused because there was no level about the topic they’d been discussing that _wasn’t_ professional. So what was Tom’s point, exactly, if not to try to get a dig in at him?

And then Tom said it a third time, and Greg almost lost his shit. They were at Greg’s apartment, trying a canapé recipe he was testing out to make for a party. “Pretty good, on a professional level,” Tom said.

“Dude.” Greg looked at him, but Tom didn’t meet his eye.

“What? I said it’s good, Greg.”

“Dude, no. You keep saying that— _on a professional level_ —and, like, why? Do you want to talk about it? Like, about the trip?”

“Talk about what, Greg? It’s just a turn of phrase.” Tom took another bite and leaned back against the counter.

“No, it’s not. I mean, yes—it is, I know it is, but, like, also it’s not? Like, I know, and I think you know, that it’s a thing that I said, at a particular time, that you were perhaps a bit upset about? And now it feels like you’re, like, bringing it up on purpose, but also, like, not bringing it up? So, like—are you? Or not?”

“Greg,” Tom said, drawing it out, “did someone have a little smokey-smokey before I got here?”

Greg followed Tom as he walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, sat down next to him on the couch. “I’m not high right now, man,” Greg said. “Don’t, like, gaslight me. I know you’re saying it on purpose.”

“I'm really not, Greg. Can you stop fucking chasing me around your apartment? Because I’m feeling a little harassed.”

“Come on, dude,” Greg said, turning sideways on the couch to look at Tom. Tom leaned away from him into the armrest, staring out the window. Greg forged on: “Just let it be nice. Just let it be fucking nice for once. I feel like you have, like, this brick wall of asshole built up around you, but I know nice Tom is in there. Little nudey turtle nice Tom, you know? I know he’s in there, dude. I’ve seen it. I can see its little turtle head, like, poking out right now, and I just like that Tom. I want to hang out with that Tom, you know? You know what I mean? Can you just, like, ditch the bricks for, like, an hour?”

“Greg. Stop. What the fuck are you on about? Bricks and fucking turtles, man? Are you sure you’re not high?”

“Yes, you do. I mean, no, I’m not high—but you _do_ know what I’m talking about. I know you do.” Greg leaned in closer, trying to get Tom to look at him. Tom glanced over at him and looked away quickly, rolling his eyes.

“Can you stop looking at me like that? The childish hope in your eyes is fucking painful, man. You’re like a poor kid begging for candy.”

Greg took Tom’s hand, but he pulled it away, clasping his hands together on the armrest away from Greg.

“Please, man. Come on,” Greg said.

Tom sighed. And then he said, “Greg, this is not a thing. I’m not fucking gay, first of all. I’m married to a woman. And I find her very sexually attractive, thank you very much.”

“So maybe you’re, like, bi. Or pan.”

“I don’t just want to fuck everything that walks, Greg.”

“God, Tom. No, it just—it means, like, maybe you just don’t care about, like, gender. Or, like, maybe any genitals are fine? You know?”

“Whatever. It doesn’t fucking matter because the second thing is that I absolutely cannot be in—” He faltered, glanced at Greg, and shook his head. “In— _whatever_ —with my wife’s cousin. You know? I just can’t.”

“Wait, in what?” Greg stared hard at the side of his face.

“I’m not fucking saying it again, Greg. Please—stop—looking at me.”

“But you never—”

“Greg? Stop.”

Slowly Greg reached across Tom to grasp his forearm, pulled his hand back into his own lap. And this time Tom didn’t pull away. Greg fidgeted with Tom’s hand in his lap, tugging on his fingers, smoothing his thumbs across his palm. Tom stared down at their hands.

“Is this okay?” Greg asked quietly.

“I don’t know.” Tom chuckled in exasperation. “You know? It is but it isn’t.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Greg’s hands had frozen on Tom’s, and Tom was quiet for a moment. “No.”

“Do you want me to keep going?”

Tom closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Are you sure? Because like—”

“I said fucking yes, Greg. I meant it,” Tom said, resting his chin on his fist on the armrest.

Greg turned Tom’s hand over, pressed it palm-down over his thigh, and Tom didn’t take it back. “Look,” Greg said, loosening his tie. “I just wanna, like, try something, okay? And maybe it’ll help? You know? Just, like, keep your eyes closed, and don’t look at me, and don’t, like, think about me looking at you. Okay?”

“Why? What are you doing?” Tom said, and Greg reached up to tie his tie over Tom’s eyes.

“Greg, this is ridiculous. What is this, a fucking frat party?” Tom reached up to push the tie off, but Greg caught his hands.

“Will you just, like, try it? For, like, a minute? Hide the shame, mask the pleasure, right? I mean, you can take it off whenever you want, but you haven’t even, like, tried yet?”

Tom grumbled. “Fine. I’m trying it.”

Greg traced his fingers where they spread over his thigh. “Can I take you to my bedroom?”

“Goddammit, Greg, I can’t—”

“Okay, so no, and that’s, like, definitely fine. Will you lay down though?” Greg stood up, and Tom hesitantly stretched out on the couch. Greg put a pillow under his head, straightened the tie, and sat across his thighs, one knee squeezed against the back of the couch and the other foot planted on the floor. Tom had clasped his hands at his chest, and Greg reached forward to take them.

“Just, like, tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, and Tom nodded, chewing his lip. Greg turned their hands over, skimmed his thumbs over Tom’s palms and up over his wrists, under his sleeves, tracing the parts of Tom that were always visible to him but never quite so vulnerable. He undid the buttons on the cuffs, rolled up each sleeve to the elbow. He pressed a kiss into one palm, slid his mouth along the smooth skin of Tom’s forearm, nosed into the crook of his elbow.

Tom had clenched his free hand back into a fist over his chest. His breath was coming shallow, but so was Greg’s. And Greg really had no idea what he was doing here—he didn’t have a plan, going into this. He was just letting his hands and his mouth do what they wanted, and he was going to keep letting them do what they wanted until Tom told him to stop.

Greg trailed his hands up over Tom’s shoulders and across his collarbone, tugged at the top button of his shirt, and when Tom kept quiet, he undid it, and then the second button, and the third. He leaned forward until he was lying half on Tom, squeezed between him and the back of the couch, head pillowed on his bicep. He traced a finger from beneath Tom’s ear down his neck and into the hair on the exposed strip of his chest, watching Tom’s lip quiver as he did it.

Greg reached up to touch that lip with two fingers, asked softly, “Can I kiss you here?”

Tom shook his head, and his voice broke when he said, “No.”

“Okay.” Greg touched the side of his neck, just where his lips would fall if he leaned forward a few inches. “What about, like, here, though?”

Tom nodded, and Greg leaned in and pressed a kiss just there. He splayed his hand on Tom’s chest under his shirt, rubbed the tip of his nose up and down his throat. When Greg opened his mouth to graze his teeth over the soft skin there, Tom exhaled heavily and gripped Greg’s forearm with one hand. Greg laved his tongue over Tom’s pulse, shifted to rut against his hip, his thigh pressing up between Tom’s.

When Tom let go of his arm to tug at Greg’s hair, Greg sucked a bloom on his throat, his free hand working haphazardly to unbutton the rest of Tom’s shirt. He pulled away, mouth swollen, to watch Tom’s face while he rubbed the warm skin on his chest and ribs and belly.

Greg swallowed, traced his fingers slowly above the waistband of Tom’s pants. “And, uh, here? Tom?”

Tom opened his mouth to answer, but his voice cracked wordlessly, and he just nodded. With a shaky hand Greg undid his pants and reached in to palm his dick through his underwear, pressing his mouth back to Tom’s neck. Tom’s mouth fell open as his cock swelled under Greg’s hand. Greg bit his neck softly, and Tom whimpered.

Nuzzling his ear, Greg asked, “Can I, like, touch your ass?”

“Ah . . . ” Tom cleared his throat. “I think, no.”

“Okay, well, maybe we can, like, get to that, like, at a future time? Because—”

“Can we not plan out our entire future right now, Greg?”

“Right, no, yeah, it’s just that I really wanna, like—I wanna fuck you, you know? Like, so bad.” Tom cursed as Greg slid his mouth back down to suck on his neck, slowly slipped his hand under Tom’s waistband to squeeze his bare cock, picked back up his slow grind against his hip.

When they were both breathless, Tom gripping his shoulder and rutting into his hand, Greg started to sit up, said, “Okay, I’m just gonna—”

Tom put his hands over his face, the tips of his fingers against the edge of the tie, as Greg moved down his body. “Greg. I’m sorry it’s not, you know, all trimmed up down there. I just haven’t really cared enough to, you know, lately. I usually like to—”

Greg patted his hip. “Dude, no, it’s all good.” He smiled, even though Tom couldn’t see it, and then he worked down the waistband of his boxers and took his cock into his mouth. Tom was holding his breath, his hands still covering his face, and Greg reached up and took his wrist and moved his hand to his own head. Tom threaded his fingers through Greg’s hair, pulling it back from his forehead.

Tom’s fingers tightened in his hair as Greg slid his mouth over him, and the high sounds escaping from Tom’s throat were just like the one he’d made when Greg had kissed him in that awful hotel, only even more desperate now. Tom tapped the side of Greg’s face when he was close, started to say, “Greg, I—” but whatever he’d been planning to say was caught up in an affronted whimper when Greg released his cock from his mouth.

Greg moved up to lie next to him again, teasing his fingers lightly over Tom’s slick cock, smirking when Tom lifted his hips to chase the pressure.

“Greg, what the fuck?”

Greg nosed at his neck, nipped at his ear, said softly, “Tell me what you were gonna say?”

“I was _trying_ to tell you I was going to come, but now I’m definitely not, so never fucking mind,” Tom said, and cursed when Greg squeezed the base of his dick.

“No, man. Before that. You said you couldn’t be, like, _in whatever_. With me? What’s _whatever_?”

“Greg, you fucking slimeball,” Tom said. Greg smiled and hummed, circled a finger around the head of his cock, pressed his thumb over the tip of it. “ _Fuck_. Goddammit. _In love with you_. That’s the _whatever_. Is that good enough? Can you please—?”

Greg pecked his cheek and moved back down in a rush, sucked Tom’s cock back into his mouth and squeezed his balls hard. Tom kneed him in the gut when he came, keening _Greg Greg Greg_ , and Greg grinded against his shin as he swallowed down his orgasm, hoarding those syllables away for later.

Greg stretched back out next to Tom, pressing his face into his neck and rubbing slow circles over his chest.

When he’d caught his breath, Tom said, “So you did want my cock in your mouth, huh? You cocksuck, I fucking knew it.”

“I mean, yeah,” Greg said. “But sometimes I also just wanna shove my dick in your mouth so you’ll stop, like, bashing me.”

Tom sputtered like he was offended, but he didn’t come back with any retort. Greg traced the scar above his lip, waiting for him to say something, and when he didn’t Greg pushed the tie up off his eyes.

“Wait, is that, like—would you be into that?”

“Of course not. Sounds awful. So . . . humiliating,” Tom said, but he didn’t sound very convincing. Greg hummed in response and lay his head back down on Tom’s shoulder.

“Was this, like, okay?”

“I mean, you know,” Tom said, squeezing his shoulder.

“I don’t, though?”

“Jesus, Greg. Do I have to fucking spell everything out for you? Yes. It was okay. It was good. Did I tell you to stop? Quit overthinking it.”

“Sorry, I just—I don’t want you to hate me? Or, like, fire me, or something.”

“I can’t hate you, Greg. You’re fucking obnoxious sometimes, and I feel like I should hate you, but I can’t make myself do it.”

Greg smiled, squeezed his arm around Tom’s ribs.

“Hey,” Tom said. “You know Shiv’s out of town again? Do you—would you mind if I stayed over?”

“I think—well, like, it kind of depends?”

“It _depends_ , Greg? On fucking what?”

“Am I allowed to kiss you now?”

“My, aren’t we cheeky? Well, get on with it, Greg.” Tom dug his fingers teasingly into Greg’s ribs, right where he was ticklish, and Greg stifled a laugh, squirming. “You sly fuck!” Tom said. “Are you fucking ticklish? Get out of here!”

Tom tickled him mercilessly, until Greg finally wrestled him off the couch and onto the floor, pinning his wrists.

“I can’t believe this,” Tom said, cackling. “The stolid fucking Gregory Hirsch, fucking ticklish.”

Greg glared down into his face, said, “Shut up.”

“Or what, Greg? You gonna kick me out now?”

“Nope.” Greg leaned in and kissed him once, and when he pulled back slowly to look at him Tom’s face had gone serious. Tom tugged his arms, trying to free them from Greg’s grip, but Greg held him down. Then Greg kissed him again, languid and sweet. And when he lowered his chest down to Tom’s, forgetting to hold onto Tom’s wrists, he had this brief moment of panic that Tom would suddenly come back to himself and push him away. But Tom reached up and wrapped an arm around his neck to hold him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl I'm kinda braindead after the election so it may be a little bit before the last chapter 😬 (at the same time tho this is def my primary coping mechanism rn so like who fuckin knows)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The firearm lobby comes calling. Tom and Greg have a little talk.

Tom called Greg into his office early the next morning, and he got there to find Karolina there already, looking a little harassed. Greg panicked that someone had found out about him and Tom, that there was some kind of HR paperwork they’d have to fill out or that Logan had sent Karolina to chop their dicks off.

Tom spoke first. “Greg, remember how you were chatting up those folks from the firearm lobby at the media conference?”

“Uh. Um, no? Wasn’t that y—”

“Well, you did, so. They’re trying to call in a favor now. You need to deal with it.”

“A favor? Like, what kind of favor? What?” He looked between Tom and Karolina, trying to figure out if this was some kind of joke, or if Tom was actually trying to pin his own fuck-up on Greg. (The latter seemed unfortunately the more likely, even after everything that had happened the night before.)

Karolina cut in: “They’re asking us to set up a talk show for them on ATN. Something ‘amenable to the industry.’ It’s not something we can do. Bad press, with the, you know, the recent incident.”

Greg nodded. “Of course, yeah. And, uh, which incident might that have been, if I may ask?”

“The shooting, Greg? Jesus,” Tom said.

“I’ll leave this to you two to work out,” Karolina said. “We just need to get them a firm answer by end of day tomorrow. They’re already trying to interview hosts. Best if we head that off.”

“Right, thank you, Karolina. Please tell Logan I’ve got it under control, one hundred percent,” Tom said. He walked her to his office door and sat back down behind his desk.

“Do you actually want me to call the gun dudes?” Greg asked.

“You’re goddamn fucking right I do, Greg. They’ll fucking shoot me if I do it.”

“Well, I mean, won’t they shoot me too?”

“No, Greg. They don’t even know who you are. They’re not going to waste their time on some nobody little office assistant.”

“But what if they, like, wanted to come after somebody you cared about?”

“Ha! This is a fucking secret, Greg, remember? They’re not coming after you, buddy.”

“Then why won’t you call them?”

“Because you’re my assistant, and it’s your fucking job to call them.”

“Fine.” Greg shook his head. “Whatever.”

Tom leaned forward in his chair. “Are you going to let me talk shit to you like that, Greg? _Bash_ you like that?”

“Um.” Tom gave him a pointed look. “Wait, is this about—is this about the thing? The—I mean, I’m—no? No, I’m not? Tom? I’m not going to let you, like, bash me like that.”

“Maybe you should shut the door.”

Greg swallowed. “Uh, like, I think maybe _you_ should shut the door?”

“Attaboy, Greg!” Tom grinned at him, patting his shoulder as he stepped past him to obey, and Greg moved to stand behind his desk.

“Okay, here’s what—I’m going to sit in your chair? And I think it’d work best if you, like, kneel in front of me, but would that hurt your knees? Because I don’t want—”

“Greg, come on, buddy. Am I going to suck you off or are you going to blather at me all morning?”

“Dude, fine then. Kneel down.” Greg sprawled out in Tom’s chair, legs spread around Tom, who was settling down on his knees. Tom’s hands crept up under the hems of his trousers to skim the skin above his dress socks—a pair Tom had bought for him, Greg was fairly certain, to replace the threadbare ones he used to wear with his topsiders—as Greg fidgeted with his belt buckle.

Tom sat silent, an eyebrow raised, as Greg pulled out his cock. And he just knelt there, watching, as Greg stroked himself slowly, bringing himself to hardness. Greg thought he could get used to this, sitting in the boss’s chair, Tom on his knees in front of him, looking up at Greg like he was the one thing that could make him feel content, give him a break from his constant frenzied posturing for five fucking minutes. But it was also a little nerve-wracking, feeling so observed.

Tom’s gaze flicked between Greg’s face and his dick. “Aren’t I supposed to do that?” he asked, his fingers tightening on Greg’s calves.

“Do you—I mean, would you like that?” Greg paused, leaned forward to look down into Tom’s face, decided to gamble a little, and his voice was breathless when he said, “I bet you’d like that.”

Tom stared him right in the eye and said, “I’m slavering, pig man.” Greg blushed furiously, trying not to grin. Tom was ridiculous, so shameless in so many of his desires, but for Greg to finally have that directed so freely toward him was novel and sweet and thrilling. With his free hand Greg gripped Tom’s jaw and pulled him up into a kiss, their matched neediness dragging him finally out of his head.

When Greg pulled away to sprawl back in the chair, breathless, Tom knelt back down, gaze fast on his cock, and licked up the drop of precum gathered at the tip. Greg looked up at the ceiling tiles as Tom took him full into his mouth, then forced himself to look back down as Tom began to work him up, gripping the base of his cock and laving his tongue over the tip at each stroke.

Greg patted Tom’s head when he started to get close, but Tom didn’t stop, just shook his head as much as he could with a mouth full of cock. Greg tugged his ear, and when Tom finally pulled off to look up at him impatiently, his mouth hung open, his lips slick and reddened, and Greg had to take a breath before he remembered what he wanted to say.

“Are you, you know—are you gonna swallow?”

“You really made me stop just to ask that, Greg?”

Greg sat up slightly to look at him better, trying to make the most of his briefly dominant position over Tom. “Look, man, I just wanted to say, like, don’t spill any?”

Tom grinned, said, “Wouldn’t dream of it, Gregory,” and descended back onto his cock. Greg came thrusting deep into Tom’s mouth, with Tom’s hands rubbing the skin on his hips and his waist, coaxing little aftershocks out of him. Greg watched his throat work to swallow down every drop, just like he’d promised, and cursed when Tom sat back on his heels and licked his swollen lips.

“Don’t get too cozy in that chair now, Greg. You still work for me, yeah?”

Greg smirked. “Sure, Tom.”

“Hey, listen, buddy, you got a minute?” Tom asked as Greg righted his clothes.

“Uh, like, you’re the boss, right? Do I?”

Tom rolled his eyes, stood up and brushed off his pant legs. “Shut up, Greg. Go sit down.” Greg moved over to the couch across the office, and Tom sat down next to him.

“Listen,” Tom said, not meeting his eye, and Greg wondered what he could possibly have to say that would make it harder to look him in the face than when he’d literally had Greg’s dick in his mouth moments earlier. “Listen, I realize this might seem a bit premature, or a little jumping-of-the-gun, maybe. But I talked to Shiv early this morning.”

Tom hesitated, running a finger over his lip, and Greg hummed encouragingly.

“We haven’t had what you’d call, I guess, a traditional marriage.”

“Right. Yeah, not really.”

“And I don’t think it works for me, most of the time, if I’m really honest.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t think it’s feasible for me—you know, career-wise? To go through a divorce right now. Or for Shiv, really.”

Greg hummed, feeling his brow furrow. Was Tom breaking up with him? (Were they even together? Did one semi-extorted admission of love and a couple of blowjobs count as _together_?)

“But, so, and I know that’s not ideal. For anyone, probably.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Um, what isn’t ideal, though?”

Tom looked over at him finally, and the worried look on his face didn’t make Greg feel any better. “Me and Shiv staying married. If—if, you know, you and me.”

“Me and you what?”

“If you and me were to, to be together.”

“Oh.” Greg felt all out of breath, and he wasn’t sure yet whether it was because he was hurt or because he was thrilled.

“If you want that, I mean,” Tom said.

“So, like. You would be married to Shiv, and I would be, like, what? Your side piece?”

“No, no, no. Not my _side piece_ , Greg. Don’t say it like that.”

“Then what am I, dude?”

“Just—Look. Me and Shiv agreed this morning that our marriage is basically, at this point, a political agreement. A platonic thing. It has been for a while. And this was never really what I wanted—it’s not what I expected when I got married. But we already have this arrangement, you know? And I never really figured out what I wanted out of it—I was just sulking about my wife fucking around and pining over my fucking assistant. Over you.

“But maybe you want me back, actually, and maybe—I just thought, maybe, that could be it, you know? I’m still married to Shiv, on paper, for now—because I can’t divorce her and keep this job, I know that and you know that and everybody fucking knows that—but in my heart, you know, I could be married to you.”

“Marriage seems, like, maybe a lot, right now?” Greg asked.

“Okay, Greg—well, anyway I can’t _actually_ marry you right now. But I’m in love with you, and I want to be with you, and I know it’s not ideal, with Shiv, and me being your boss and all that, but you know, could it work? Could we make it work for us?”

“God, Tom. This is all so, just, bizarre? And I don’t love it, the whole secret side deal thing. I don’t love it. But if it’s, like, you know, a pro-tempore type of situation, then I’m down, I guess. Like—just, yeah. I’m down.” He looked back at Tom and grinned, and Tom looked almost disbelievingly thrilled.

“Yeah? Really?”

“Yeah, man. Like, it’s weird, you know? But it makes me happy. I’m happy with you, and if you’re happy with me too and this is the way to work it out so we can be happy together, then yeah, I think—like, I think we should fucking do it.”

“You’re fucking serious?”

“Hell, yeah, man.”

“Fuck, Greg. Fuck.” Tom reached out like he was going to pull Greg into a hug, but stopped himself halfway, like he wasn’t really sure how to do it. And then all at once he grabbed Greg’s face and kissed him, hard. Greg slung an arm around his neck when he pulled away, and Tom leaned his head on Greg’s shoulder.

“I don’t think I should work for you anymore though, dude,” Greg said.

“Probably not.”

“I don’t want people to think I’m sucking your dick for promotions, you know?”

“But you will be,” Tom said.

“Well, obviously there’ll be a little bit of quid pro quo. But, like, the _quo_ will be that I also get my dick sucked? Not, like, I get a promotion.”

“I could get you a promotion, though. You know? I could.”

“Sure you could. I’d rather save my quos for other stuff, though.”

“God, I can’t believe this is really happening,” Tom said. He poked Greg in the ribs. “It is, right?”

“Yeah, dude. It is. It’s fucking bizarre—like, you’re really bizarre? But I fucking love you, man,” Greg said, squeezing Tom’s neck and resting his chin on his head. “Is Shiv out of town this weekend?”

“Mmhmm. Wanna hang out?”

“Yeah. Can you bring Mondale over to my place?”

“Only if you and me bang at least twice a day and only get out of bed to eat and piss for the entire weekend.”

“Hell, yeah,” Greg said, and grinned as Tom pushed him off to stand up.

“Alright, get back to work, you lazy piece of shit. You’ve been slacking off all morning. Gonna be hard to find you a different department if you keep this up, yeah?”

Greg stood up and kissed him, and afterward when Tom wrapped his arms around his waist Greg smiled so hard his face hurt.

“See you later, buddy,” Tom said, patting his back.

Greg walked backwards toward the door of the office, blushing at the goofy grin he knew was on his face, and Tom rolled his eyes at him.

“You’ve gotta chill your face out, Greg. You look like you just had the lay of your fucking life.”

“I haven’t had it yet. I’m just imagining it.” He stopped by the door. “I’ll see you later?”

“Greg. I’ll see you in an hour. You’re not off latte duty yet, buddy.”

Greg went back to his cube just outside Tom's office. He really didn't think he'd be getting much work done that day, but he doubted Tom would notice. This whole thing—it really was fucking weird. Like, how was he going to explain this to his mother? But he was more psyched about it than he'd been about any other relationship he'd ever been in, and she'd see that, he hoped.

Tom could be an asshole, yeah. But they also watched out for each other. Even if Tom shit on Greg, he didn't let anyone _else_ shit on him. He'd taken that hit for Greg in Hungary, not telling Logan that Greg had talked to that biographer. And it felt like, as Greg and Tom spent more time around each other, nice Tom showed up more and more often. He got softer, more genuine, and even when he did bite, there was less and less tooth to it.

Greg had meant it when he said he didn't love the secret element of this new arrangement—he had his reservations. But they could work that out. Greg would move to a different department, and maybe Tom could get out of ATN entirely. He wasn't a great fit there—as much as he denied it, Tom did in fact have a conscience—and maybe the chance to be with Greg, to get out of his shitty political-platonic marriage with Shiv, would let him see how his life could be different.

But the important thing, for now, was that he'd see Tom in an hour, and when he did he could close his office door and kiss him, if he wanted to, and not have to worry about being fired or punched or rejected. The important thing, for now, was that in a few days he'd be spending an entire weekend with Tom at his place, fucking and cuddling and eating too-nice food and playing with Mondale. A bizarre little domestic life, maybe, but a fucking happy one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is without a doubt the sappiest and weirdest happy ending I have ever written lol. but I had so much fun writing this, and I hope y'all enjoy it! thanks for your comments &c along the way :D


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-season 2. Tom quits his job and his marriage at the same time and works it out at Greg's. (or, Tom is feeling distinctly _un-_ godlike but still very horny.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! an epilogue! this is Tom's pov and he is sorta having an existential crisis soooo this chapter is like 100% tonally disparate from the rest of the fic 🙃 but it's #Fanfiction and I #Do What I Want !! lol

When Tom got back from the airport, he went promptly home and packed up his clothes and a bag of toys and food for Mondale. Shiv had gone straight to Logan’s to reconnoiter after Kendall’s bombshell press conference, so Tom didn’t really need to rush, but he didn’t much feel like hanging around. This probably wouldn’t be the last time he’d see the place; he stepped through the rooms he’d spent the most time in, and then he split for Greg’s.

He let himself into Greg’s apartment. “Honey, I’m home!” he called out, hating himself only a little and hoping Greg's laugh would be worth it. Greg came careening and grinning into the entryway on sock feet.

“Hi! You’re back! And you brought Mondale! And all this . . . stuff? What’s, uh, what’s all this? You didn’t come straight from the airport?” Greg asked, leaning down to hug him.

“Greg, I’ve resigned,” Tom said.

“From what?”

“From Waystar, you dolt,” Tom said, crowding his luggage against the wall. “And also my marriage.”

“Dude, what?”

“Dude. Yeah.” Tom laughed, reached up for Greg’s face and kissed him hard. “What the fuck do I do now?”

“I don’t know, man. Do you wanna celebrate? I mean, we should celebrate, right? This is a lot.”

“Eh, not sure if I’m really in a celebratory mood. I’m excited, sure, but yeah, it’s a lot. Just a lot,” Tom said. “Can we just . . . take the day off? Sit around and be boring nobodies for a day? I might have an existential crisis on deck.”

“No, absolutely. Sure, man. Come sit down. Do you want some coffee?”

Tom settled on the couch with Mondale at his feet, and Greg handed him a mug a moment later, sat down next to him. Tom set his mug on the coffee table and put his head in Greg’s lap.

“I missed you,” Tom said. “It was shit being on the boat and not allowed to look at you wrong. But you’ve been up to big shit, huh?”

“Kinda.”

“You’re smart, Greg. I think you could run this whole thing if you wanted to.”

“I don’t know if that’s what I want, really. But you think so?”

“I do think so. And you’d be the least shitty of all of them, Mr. Fucking Principles.” Tom reached up to pinch Greg’s nipple through his shirt, flicked his chin, and Greg laughed.

“I’m hungry. Want something for lunch?” Greg asked, and Tom shadowed him into the kitchen.

“Sure, but listen. You wanna bang?” Tom asked, leaning against the counter. _A cheeky little lunchtime bang_ , he thought, wincing.

Greg shut the fridge and grinned at him. “Hell, yeah.”

“Yeah?” Tom said, sauntering over to grab Greg by the hips, already staring at his mouth. Greg tucked his hair behind his ear, nodded, and bent down to kiss him, and Tom captured his lower lip in a little bite. Tom held tight to Greg’s waist as they kissed, feeling half-empty and unmoored, cleaved from half his life, the half he was supposed to have, supposed to want—but Greg was another half he could cling to, still unformed and hopeful and potential.

Tom leaned back, looked up into Greg’s face, said, “So, I’ve been doing, ah, some preparations, personally—health-wise, you know. So that maybe we could try something a little different?”

Greg cocked his head. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Well, Gregory,” Tom said, brushing a wrinkle out of Greg’s t-shirt, “I’d like you to fuck me.”

“You would? You sure? Because you always—”

“I know, Greg, but just don’t—don’t question me.” And before Greg could say or ask anything else Tom pulled him down by the neck into another kiss. Tom kissed him hard, shoving his hands up under Greg’s t-shirt to grip at his ribs, to notch up his spine, letting his fingers and his mouth telegraph his desperation. Greg held onto his shoulders, hands fluttering up to his neck once or twice and back down, almost hesitant.

Tom tugged at the hem of Greg’s shirt, pulled it over his head, circled his arms back around Greg’s bare torso to bring him back in close, nosing at his chest and biting gently at his collarbone, his neck. He unbuckled Greg’s belt, pulled it out of the loops and tossed it to the floor, and undid his fly to reach in and rub his half-hard cock through his underwear.

“Greg,” Tom said against his throat, “can you do it? Do you want to?”

Greg wrapped an arm around his shoulders to hold Tom to his chest. “I just—I want you to want me to, like, for you, not just because you think I want to.”

 _I want you to_ , Tom thought. _I don’t know the last time I felt this alone, like I could drift off like a sad, gray midwestern mist if nobody held me down. I want you to hold me down. I want you to claim me like Shiv never did. I want you inside me and around me and everywhere at once, so I can only think about you._

He wanted to look into Greg’s face, to try to show him all that, but he didn’t think he could do it. So instead he just said into Greg’s bare shoulder: “I want you to. For me. Please.”

Greg pushed Tom’s shoulders back to look at him for the shortest second, his brow furrowed, and gave him the slightest nod. Greg held his face and kissed him slow and deep, and when he slid his hands down Tom’s back to grab his ass, rolling their hips together, Tom groaned into his mouth. Greg lit up then, his mouth greedy on Tom’s, his hands working to unbutton Tom’s shirt, chafing at the skin underneath like if he didn’t touch it all now he’d never get another chance.

Greg undid Tom's pants, pushed them down his hips, and Tom kicked them off, pulling away from Greg’s mouth only for a moment. When their bodies were pressed together again Greg reached back down to squeeze his ass, pulling him up and spreading him open, and Tom felt his emptiness acute in his body. He reached between them for Greg’s erection, losing his mind at the heft and thickness of it and the thought that he could have _that_ , that Greg could fill him up, could take away all his emptiness with _that_.

Tom realized he was just standing there staring at Greg, his eyes glazed over and out of focus the way Greg’s sometimes were, and he wondered how often, when Greg had stood in his office, completely zoned out of a conversation, he’d been imagining them together like this.

Tom bit his lip and found his voice long enough to say, “I want you to, Greg,” and then Greg was kissing him again, turning him around, pressing his bare chest to Tom’s back to lean him over the counter. Greg tugged Tom’s loose shirt back to bare his shoulders, clamped his mouth onto Tom’s trapezius and rutted against his ass like an animal, his undone zipper scraping through the thin fabric of Tom’s boxers.

Then Greg kissed the side of his neck once, chaste, braced a hand on his back to hold him still bent over the counter, and knelt down behind him, tugging down his boxers. Tom felt the soft pinch of teeth on his inner thigh, on the cheek of his ass, and then he knuckled down on the counter when Greg spread him open. Greg nosed at the crease at the top of one thigh, and then he shoved his face into Tom’s ass and licked.

Tom felt his whole body seize up, anxious and unbearably vulnerable, but then Greg moaned into him and licked again and squeezed his cheeks to hold him open, and Tom leaned down, pressed his face against the cold counter, and gave himself over to it. It felt fucked up: letting Greg bury his face in his ass, letting Greg lick the life out of him in the worst possible place, letting Greg—letting himself—feel such unadulterated pleasure from something objectively disgusting.

It should’ve been humiliating, bent over like that in his wrinkled dress shirt and socks, just like it should’ve been humiliating to sit on his knees in front of Greg in his own office and apologize with his mouth on Greg’s dick for all the horrible things he’d ever said. And maybe that was why Tom loved it so much; maybe that was why his cock was swollen red and dripping onto Greg's kitchen tile despite having only barely been touched. He opened his eyes to stare at the countertop and wished he could see Greg behind him, his lanky limbs bent and his back curled and big hands spread. Tom wished he could see Greg’s long eyelashes flutter when he whined into his ass.

Greg eased up off his knees, dragging his face and his hands up Tom’s body, wrapped himself back around Tom’s waist.

“Bed now,” Greg said against the back of his neck, and Tom let himself be led there by the hand. Greg pushed Tom’s shirt off his shoulders, shucked off the rest of his own clothes, knelt between Tom’s thighs on the bed.

“You can cover your face,” he said as he stroked Tom with lubed fingers. Tom rubbed his eyes and shook his head, raised his bent arm for a pillow, watched Greg examine his face for cues as he pressed one thick-knuckled finger into him. Greg’s mouth fell open when he slid in with a second finger, and Tom breathed into the new fullness, looking down at Greg’s cock heavy between his legs.

Greg slicked himself with lube, braced himself over Tom to slide the head of his dick against Tom’s hole, hot and relaxed and ready, and Greg’s face as he pressed into him was one of steady concentration. His mask broke when he’d thrust all the way in, their hips flush, his other hand falling to cage his body over Tom’s. Tom grasped Greg’s forearms, not letting himself reach up to cling to his neck and shoulders.

Greg’s face and chest above him blocked out everything else in the room: Tom could look at Greg or at nothing, and obviously he chose Greg. Tom thought that maybe this was all he could handle, Greg thick inside him, looking down at him like this with half-wild concern—and then Greg slowly pulled out and thrust back into him. Tom was pinned down into his body, drowning in Greg and sensation and _Greg_.

Greg’s elbows shuddered around him, and Tom wrapped an arm around his neck to pull Greg down to him, giving in to his clinginess and relishing in the sweetness of Greg’s weight on his chest. Greg didn’t pull away but pressed his face into Tom’s neck, huffing out hot broken breaths by his ear.

“Greg,” Tom said, kissing his shoulder, and Greg said, “ _Fuck_ ,” worked up onto his elbows to kiss him, the kiss turning into a messy press of desperate mouths as Greg fucked him.

 _Greg_ , Tom said into his mouth, thinking _I'm drowning in you and it is the best death._

 _Greg_ , Tom said into his ear, thinking _How is it possible you're as needy as I am?_

 _Greg_ , Tom said into his neck, thinking _I can never come back from this, and I don’t deserve it at all._

“I can’t fucking—take all that, Tom,” Greg said. “ _Fuck_. Need you to come first.” He lifted up to give Tom room to stroke himself between them, watched glassy-eyed as Tom shuddered and arched beneath him, lifting his hips to take Greg in deep as he streaked hot up his chest. Tom clung to Greg as he followed soon after, whispering Greg’s name mindlessly in his ear and drinking down the groans Greg choked out in reply.

Greg collapsed on top of him after, sweaty and panting, and Tom held him there, knowing that in moments he’d be empty and untethered again—his brain already wanted to float. Greg’s whole body had vibrated when Tom said his name, and Tom was equal parts drunk on that and despairing at all the times he’d immediately followed _Greg_ with something awful. He wheezed out a strained breath as Greg shifted above him but wasn’t ready to let go yet, relishing in his last moments of feeling so claimed, so wholly possessed, when he’d just given up half a marriage with only half a mindless romance, at best.

And he’d had Greg here the whole time. He’d been stringing him along, unable to fully commit to him, and for what? Because he’d been holding out for some stupid hetero-domestic ideal? For a job he was awful at anyway and was only allowed to keep because of nepotism? He held tight to Greg’s waist, unable to get a full breath under the weight of Greg's giant body and his own morass of guilt.

When Greg finally rolled off of him, Tom said, “God, you fucked my brains out, Greg. Is this how you feel all the time? It's like I don't have any bones left. How am I going to walk? How do I move on from this?” Greg just laughed and smiled bashfully and dragged him out of bed to shower.

Standing under the hot water, Tom said, “I don’t deserve you.” And Greg looked into his face, didn’t say _No, you don’t_ —just “I love you, though.”

“I’m sorry I made you wait so long,” Tom said. “Why did you let me put this off? I told you not to let people shit on you.”

“I knew you’d figure it out eventually,” Greg said, rinsing soap off his face.

“I was being serious when I asked how I’m supposed to move on from this.”

“I know. You’re not, I guess. Supposed to move on.”

“Well, what the fuck do I do then, Greg? Am I just fucked? Doomed to live a sad, bored life in a homeless shelter for the fallen wealthy?”

“No, you just . . . stay here. And figure out what you want. Like, you want this, right?” Greg asked, gesturing between them.

“Obviously, Greg.”

“Okay, then we start with that. Dude, you just trashed your holy grail of, like, what—decades? So give it a few days, you know?”

“Jesus, Greg. You’re making me sound like an octogenarian trying to get out of politics into a goddamn MFA program. I didn’t _trash_ anything. I tastefully and respectfully parted ways with an ideal.”

“Right, exactly. However you want to say it, man. Look. The thing about you is that you have principles. Shit on mine all you want, dude, but you have them too. You just buried the fuck out of them so you’d fit in better with my cousins. And we all saw how that turned out—”

“Thank you, Greg,” Tom said bitterly, and Greg patted his shoulder.

“—but, so, maybe it’s time to dig them back out, you know?”

“Next you’re going to tell me to start seeing a therapist.”

“Well . . . it wouldn’t be, like the worst idea?”

“Fuck you, Greg. Maybe I will.” Tom was absolutely done with this conversation. “Alright, let’s get the fuck out. I’m hungry and I want to buy decent food while I can still afford it.”

Greg shrugged out his _whatever_ , turned around to shut the water off, but stilled when Tom wrapped his arms around his waist, pressing his chest to Greg’s back.

“I do love you, Greg,” he said, pressing his mouth to Greg’s spine. “I know I don’t say it much. I just really don’t know how most of the time, anymore. But I do. Yeah?”

Greg squeezed Tom’s hands, kissed his knuckles. “Yeah, man. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did this just turn into angsty porn? maybe! oops! but Tom Wamb kept rattling around in my head screeching at me about his guilt so here we are

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Twitter at [@van1lla_v1lla1n](https://twitter.com/van1lla_v1lla1n) and Tumblr at [@van1lla-v1lla1n](https://van1lla-v1lla1n.tumblr.com/). Come say hi and feel free to dm me about tags.


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